


Sky Blue

by Zai42



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Coming Untouched, Crying, Do Not Archive, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Monster Mike, Nonconathon Treat, Other, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 07:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14869010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: The Fairchilds have no interest in stealing Martin away from the Beholding; they just want to make sure he's good enough for their dear friend Mike.





	Sky Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [track_04](https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/gifts).



Mike yelled something over the wind, but Martin couldn't make it out; it was only when they hit the ground, Martin wrapped up in Mike's arms, that Martin realized Mike hadn't been speaking to him at all.

  
The woman didn't land--the sky parted like curtains on a stage around her and she descended to earth with perfect poise, more graceful about it than even Mike was. Martin couldn't tell if he wanted to stare at her or try to shy away from her; she was certainly attractive, with hair so blonde it was nearly white and eyes grey as winter, but whatever felt off about Mike felt downright _inhuman_ about her. She met Martin's eyes and smiled like a razor.

  
"You still haven't introduced us to your friend, Mike," the woman said airily. She combed long fingers through her hair, tugging it back into an effortless ponytail. "That's a bit rude. Father hasn't stopped asking after you." She looked at Martin as she said it, one thin eyebrow arching and her smile never wavering.

  
"This is Martin Blackwood," Mike said. His voice was bland as he said it. "Martin, this is Harriet Fairchild."

  
Martin waved timidly at her. "Nice to finally meet you," he said, trying to sound more assertive than he felt.

  
Harriet's smile grew wider. "You're just too sweet," she said. Her eyes flickered over to Mike. "That's what my father was worried about, of course."

  
Mike blinked at her.

* * *

They had met in the Institute, because where else did Martin ever go where he would meet people? Mike had stopped by to talk to Elias--Martin had never found out about what, exactly, but it had clearly gone well for Mike, who whistled as he breezed down the staircase, caught Martin's eye, and smiled at him so brilliantly that Martin felt as if he had forgotten how to breathe.

  
They had talked, they had hit it off, and before Martin knew it he was tumbling through an endless blue sky with Mike's mouth pressed to his and his hands roving over his skin.

  
It was good. The endless empty sky shouldn't have been the comfort that it was, but with Mike's arms around his waist and his blue eyes boring into him, Martin felt safer than he ever had at the Institute.

* * *

"Hello, Martin."

  
Martin nearly leapt out of his skin, twisting around to see Harriet, staring at him with those snowcloud eyes. "Oh, um--hi," Martin said, flicking the corner of the statement file he was clutching. "Are you looking for--"

  
"You, actually," Harriet said. She reached out, tilted the file towards herself, and scanned it with a look of detached interest on her face. "It's about our friend Mike."

  
Martin swallowed. "Is he--is he okay?"

  
"For now." Harriet looked up from the statement. "How _do_ you stand these?" she asked, gesturing. "They seem so dull and lifeless, I could never. Just not cut out for it, I suppose." Martin hugged the statement to his chest, feeling oddly protective of it. "Well, we all have our roles to play," Harriet continued, watching the way his fingers tightened. "Which is what I wanted to talk to you about."

  
"I..." Martin glanced around the Archives, hoping for some escape. But no--Jon was away again, Melanie was out conducting an interview, Basira and Detective Tonner hadn't come in all day, and Tim was probably asleep in some corner. "I can make tea," Martin finally said, weakly.

  
"Lead the way," Harriet said cheerfully, and Martin reluctantly did so.

  
He could feel her eyes on him as he bustled around the tiny kitchen, but she didn't speak until they were both sat at the table with steaming mugs in front of them. It reminded him of Mike, in a way--that same affected politeness, with nothing behind it. Somehow when Mike did it, it felt like he was making an effort; with Harriet, it felt like she was trying to keep up camouflage. She took a sip of her tea, made a pleased noise, and eyed him over the rim of her mug.

  
"Now then," she said, "about Mike."

* * *

"I really like spending time with you."

  
Mike glanced up from squeezing his tea bag. "Thank you," he said. There was a just-slightly-too-long pause. "I enjoy your company as well," he tried, frowning into his mug. "Hm, that wasn't very good, was it?"

  
Martin laughed. "It was fine," he said. "Can I kiss you?"

  
"We kiss all the time." A pause. "Oh, you're being romantic."

  
"Yes."

  
"In that case, please do."

* * *

"We--we've never--" Martin stumbled over his words, and Harriet let him, watching him with a blankly pleasant expression on her face. "Why?" he finally managed, his voice coming in a tiny squeak.

  
Harriet let out a quiet breath of a laugh. "Surely one of Elias' people understands the importance of _optics?"_ she said. "We all get along well enough, for the most part, but. Well. Call it...insurance. A pact. However it helps you to compartmentalize it."

  
Martin's mug was empty, but he swirled it anyway, agitated. Scared, if he were being honest. "A...pact."

  
Harriet waved a dismissive hand. "I don't want your loyalty, Martin; you can stay here, with your Archivist and your Eyes and your statements." _Where you belong,_ she didn't say, but he could sense it in her tone of voice. "We just need to know you're willing to...play nice."

  
If Harriet noticed the trepidation in the silence that followed, she didn't comment. Martin chewed his lower lip until it stung and he caught the tang of blood on his tongue, then took a deep breath.

  
"Where--" Martin cleared his throat, trying to kill the breathy shiver that ran through his voice. "Where should I meet you?"

  
Harriet's lips curled in a smile. "Dad would love you," she said. "I'll send you the details."

* * *

Martin had never done what Harriet was asking. Not with Mike--not with anyone. Certainly not in the way she was suggesting. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it--not as if he hadn't been thinking about it with increasing frequency since starting up his whatever with Mike--and as he made his way to the out-of-the-way address Harriet had given him, he was starting to regret that he'd never initiated anything more than kisses.

  
"We'll just...we'll have to make up for it later," he said aloud to his empty car. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "After all this is over." He tried not to think about how unconvincing he sounded, even to his own ears.

* * *

The manor--if it could be called that--was a towering, mismatched monstrosity that was, apparently, still under construction. Martin picked his way to the kitchen, gingerly brushing aside the plastic tarp half-covering the unfinished doorway. "I just don't get the logic," Mike was saying as Martin entered the room.

  
"Well, I suggested throwing him out of an airplane and leaving him there, but Dad likes seeing you happy," Harriet said. Her eyes met Martin's and she gave him a little wave to beckon him over, as if she hadn't just admitted to advocating for his death. "We just need to know that both of you really understand what you're getting into."

  
Martin hovered a little ways behind Mike, keeping his eyes lowered to the floor, trying to appear as acquiescent and nonthreatening as possible. Mike glanced at him, sighed irritably, and gestured at Harriet.

  
"Good to see you again, Martin." Martin glanced up and nodded. She sounded so close to genuine. Maybe she was, for once. "Glad you found the place all right. You need to get ready at all?"

  
Martin blushed and shook his head. He wanted Mike to take his hand, to offer him some kind of comfort or solidarity; he did not.

  
"All right," Harriet was saying, pushing off the wall she'd been leaned against. "We'll be doing this upstairs. When you're ready."

  
She vanished around a corner; Martin could hear her footsteps on the stairs and looked over at Mike. His face was impassive, and he quirked an eyebrow at Martin but said nothing as he lead him up to the master bedroom.

  
It was immediately obvious why they were doing it here. The wall facing the bed was an enormous set of french doors leading to what looked like it should have been a balcony, but was instead a sheer drop onto the front lawn. Harriet had flung the doors open to let in the cold night air, and now stood with her back to the open doors and her arms crossed over her chest, her white hair blowing impressively around her face. "Whenever you're ready," Harriet said again, and vanished along with the room, leaving Mike and Martin alone in the freezing void of space.

  
Martin cried out, squeezing his eyes shut and clinging to Mike, who sighed and walked him gently over to the bed, lowering him down onto it and stripping him with cold efficiency. "Martin, open your eyes," said a voice that didn't quite match up with how Martin remembered Mike's voice sounding.

  
Martin opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn't. He could feel the bed, though he couldn't see it, which was alarming enough--but Mike had changed. Whatever had been human about him had gone, and he had become hard to look at; he was a mess of twisted, forked-lightning limbs, his eyes swirling eddies of a blue that was just barely within the capabilities of the human eye to see. Martin's breath caught in his throat--at first he thought it was terror, but soon he realized it was _altitude sickness,_ a choking lack of oxygen to his system, something he'd never before experienced when Mike had carried him into the sky. He fought back panic, trying to keep his breathing deep and even. His head spun with the effort.

  
A hand--hand?--gripped his thigh, slid higher, and pressed between his legs, leaving an icy trail of condensation where it touched, and Martin whined and jolted, trying to squirm away from the sensation. Immediately he was dragged back, pinned by more hands than Mike should have--Martin tilted his head towards the stars, sucking in increasingly shaky breaths, trying not to look at the thing between his legs. He didn't want to associate it with Mike. Didn't want to think of it the next time they were in bed together.

  
Something pressed at his hole, stroking around it in slow circles, and Martin tried to relax into it, tried to enjoy it in spite of the cold and the choking dizziness clouding his brain. Then something ice cold and hard thrust into him without warning, sudden and insistent and painful, and Martin didn't have the breath to scream. It pressed deeper and deeper and deeper, seemingly endless, and Martin didn't realize he was crying until a hand cupped his cheek and froze the tears on it. "Martin--"

  
Martin let out a strangled cry and jerked away from the hand. _"Don't--"_ he gasped, and the hand retreated, the voice fell silent, and Martin struggled for air.

  
The thing inside him pulsed, writhing and radiating outwards and sinking into parts of him that human flesh wouldn't reach, dancing along his nerve endings, making his hair stand on end. It _hurt,_ a deep throbbing ache that was _almost_ like arousal but not pleasant enough, not something that could be easily sated. The hands still held him firmly in place, and Martin could only lie there and stare at the stars, electricity humming in his veins.

  
_Give him more._

  
The voice came from nowhere, and Martin whined and struggled against the hands holding him down. He heard Mike let out a low growl--and for one wild moment, Martin hoped he would disobey his masters, would take pity and stop or at least be gentler than they demanded--but he tightened his hold on Martin and did as he was told.

  
It happened like lightning--one second Martin was squirming and struggling, the next his back had arched and a thin scream tore its way from his throat. There was pain, a throbbing staccato of heat and cold and too much too full--Martin went limp, and the thing that was Mike hauled him upright, into the eye of the storm, while lightning bolt fingertips danced along his skin, leaving a trail of sparkling static.

  
Martin screwed his eyes shut and clung to what he thought were Mike's shoulders, sobbing small, choked-off protests into the empty black. His stomach churned with the sensation of falling, his thighs ached from being held open, his mind buzzed with oxygen deprivation. Distantly, he heard that same voice say, _Do something about that whining, would you?_

  
"Please _no--"_

  
And then his breath left him in a rush, and he was left to gasp for air, unable to make a sound.

  
The pulsing sensation in his belly changed, then, became somehow deeper; it soaked into him like rain into parched ground, and the thing holding him up ground forward, an approximation of a human's hips thrusting. Martin trembled in its arms, his lungs screaming even as his cock, impossibly, stirred against his stomach.

  
An icy hand tangled in his hair, tilting his head back. "Open your eyes, Beholder." Martin obeyed, blinking away stinging tears. The thing--Mike--stared back at him, its--his--eyes impossibly blue and intense. "This is what we are," Mike said. His breath ghosted over Martin's skin, and Martin worried he'd get frostbite. "You _have_ to understand this, or you'll die."

  
Tears stung Martin's eyes, and he didn't have the air to respond. Instead he nodded, though the motion made the spinning in his head worse.

  
Martin found himself thrown down onto his stomach--not that it made a great deal of difference, since the views were all the same--and Mike fucked into him with the violence of a summer storm, all jerky, disjointed movements, fast and rough and hard. Black spots danced in front of Martin's eyes; his hands clenched into fists, grasping at sheets he could not see. The pulsing pain had started to melt into something sweeter, and Martin found himself pushing back against Mike, rather than trying to get away. The thing inside him crackled like lightning, all heat and sparks in contrast to the cold air, a throbbing barometric pressure against the most sensitive places inside him. Mike let out a moan like a gale, and Martin found himself coming, his untouched cock twitching in time with Mike pulsing inside him.

  
Martin buried his face in his arms as he rutted against the sheets, heat flooding his face; it was almost a relief when the lack of oxygen caught up with him and he finally passed out.

* * *

When he came to, the french doors were closed and someone had bundled him up in the blankets on the bed. He sat up; there was no sign of either Mike or Harriet. His clothes were folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Every muscle in his body ached and he was so, so cold.

  
A hysterical laugh caught in Martin's throat, and he hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face in his hands. Laughter and heaving sobs intermingled, and soon the bedroom door opened and the bed dipped beneath someone's weight. "Martin..."

  
Mike's voice. Not the blustery, distorted mockery of it, but his real voice--or maybe the distorted one was his real voice, and this was a comforting lie. Martin giggled, high-pitched and wet with tears.

  
A hand closed around his wrist, not ice-cold but cooler than most people. Martin looked up. Mike was regarding him warily, a mug balanced on one knee. He had the correct number of limbs now, and normal proportions, and his skin was soft and had give and didn't freeze the tears on Martin's face when Mike thumbed them away. "I made you tea," he said, offering Martin the mug.

  
Martin nodded and took it. It was too hot to drink comfortably, but he sipped at it anyway. Slowly, feeling returned to his fingertips and his sobs tapered off into tiny hiccups.

  
"You..." Mike trailed off, glancing at the night sky visible through the curtains on the doors. "Do you want to see me again?"

  
Martin's fingers tightened on the mug. "I...yes." He took in a shaky breath and met Mike's eyes. "Don't want that to have been for nothing." His voice broke as he said it, but he hoped he sounded convincing anyway.

  
"Yeah." Mike nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

  
Martin hesitantly laced their fingers together over the blanket. Cold, but not ice-cold. He could do this. He had to do this.

  
"Okay."

**Author's Note:**

> No canon timelines, we die like men. 
> 
> Happy nonconathon!


End file.
